Read Online 23 Minutes by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
Ads: Link
mind.â
I need to let go , she tells herself. I need to let go.
She tries not to let her brain dwell on the last twenty-threeminutesâ any of the last twenty-three minutes. She tries not to remember the way she was startled by the blueness of Danielâs eyes. By the way his fingers brushed against the skin on the back of her hand.
By the way he asked if she was truly all right.
Truly.
I wish ⦠she thinks.
But she only knows one wish that comes true, and it just isnât cooperating today. It rarely does, but today itâs being dramatically disobliging.
Iâm sorry , she thinks to the people in and around the bank, whose names she doesnât even know, who in turn donât know they have fewer than twenty minutes to live. And to the one whose name she does know.
She repeats it out loud, because thatâs what sheâs used to doing, since thatâs the way the playback spellâor ability, or curseâworks; it needs to be said out loud. âIâm sorry.â
Yeah. A lot of good sorry has ever accomplished.
But the woman in the exceptionally awful pants thinks Zoe is talking to her and to the other people chasing down Zoeâs papers. She smiles encouragingly and says, âNothing to apologize for, dear. Everybody needs help sometimes.â
Not me , Zoe thinks. I can take care of myself. Needy people do not survive the system.
A memory bubbles to the top of Zoeâs brain from when she was nine or maybe ten years old: Her mother demanding an apology for something-or-other; herself saying, âSorryâ; her mother smacking her across the mouth hard enough Zoe could taste blood; then her mother saying, âNo, you werenât. But I bet you are now.â
And she was right , Zoe thinks.
Thereâs nothing worse than being sorry after itâs too late.
If she doesnât at least try to do something, she knows sheâll regret it for the rest of her life.
She also knows the irony of what the rest of her life might mean.
But she has enough regrets without this.
She tells herself again: She does not have to go back into the bank. There has to be another way.
âThank you,â she tells the woman with the flamboyantly floral pants, the biker guy, the fast-food place guy. âThank you. I donât need the papers.â She doesnât like abandoning them where these strangersâkind as theyâve tried to beâcan read them. She doesnât like the idea of sharing her life story. But some things are more important than others.
She stands, with Biker Guy looking ready to grab and steady her, should she turn out to be wobbly.
But sheâs not.
Her knees sting from the fall, but she takes off running, and if any of them thinks sheâs pretty fast for someone who supposedly twisted her ankle, sheâs already too far away for them to tell her so.
Thereâs no being sure what time it is, except it isnât raining yet, so that might mean sheâs not too late.
She turns the corner of the block with Spencerport Savings and Loan and, about halfway between her and the bank, sees Daniel just leaving a huge old Victorian house thatâs been divided into offices.
She runs even faster, but is never going to catch up. As he puts his hand out to open the door of the bank, she calls, âDaniel!â
Only then does she wonder if he gave her his real name: her, a clumsy, pushy, strange-looking stranger in a bank, who had forno apparent reason demanded personal information. She knows that in similar circumstances she has made things up, as a game, a private joke. If he has done the same, she has lost valuable time.
But apparently heâs more trustworthy than she is.
He turns.
And waits for her.
And continues to wait, even when the bank guard opens the door to let a woman customer out and to let Daniel come in. Daniel shakes his head and motions for the guard to go ahead and close the door without him.
Zoe is
I need to let go , she tells herself. I need to let go.
She tries not to let her brain dwell on the last twenty-threeminutesâ any of the last twenty-three minutes. She tries not to remember the way she was startled by the blueness of Danielâs eyes. By the way his fingers brushed against the skin on the back of her hand.
By the way he asked if she was truly all right.
Truly.
I wish ⦠she thinks.
But she only knows one wish that comes true, and it just isnât cooperating today. It rarely does, but today itâs being dramatically disobliging.
Iâm sorry , she thinks to the people in and around the bank, whose names she doesnât even know, who in turn donât know they have fewer than twenty minutes to live. And to the one whose name she does know.
She repeats it out loud, because thatâs what sheâs used to doing, since thatâs the way the playback spellâor ability, or curseâworks; it needs to be said out loud. âIâm sorry.â
Yeah. A lot of good sorry has ever accomplished.
But the woman in the exceptionally awful pants thinks Zoe is talking to her and to the other people chasing down Zoeâs papers. She smiles encouragingly and says, âNothing to apologize for, dear. Everybody needs help sometimes.â
Not me , Zoe thinks. I can take care of myself. Needy people do not survive the system.
A memory bubbles to the top of Zoeâs brain from when she was nine or maybe ten years old: Her mother demanding an apology for something-or-other; herself saying, âSorryâ; her mother smacking her across the mouth hard enough Zoe could taste blood; then her mother saying, âNo, you werenât. But I bet you are now.â
And she was right , Zoe thinks.
Thereâs nothing worse than being sorry after itâs too late.
If she doesnât at least try to do something, she knows sheâll regret it for the rest of her life.
She also knows the irony of what the rest of her life might mean.
But she has enough regrets without this.
She tells herself again: She does not have to go back into the bank. There has to be another way.
âThank you,â she tells the woman with the flamboyantly floral pants, the biker guy, the fast-food place guy. âThank you. I donât need the papers.â She doesnât like abandoning them where these strangersâkind as theyâve tried to beâcan read them. She doesnât like the idea of sharing her life story. But some things are more important than others.
She stands, with Biker Guy looking ready to grab and steady her, should she turn out to be wobbly.
But sheâs not.
Her knees sting from the fall, but she takes off running, and if any of them thinks sheâs pretty fast for someone who supposedly twisted her ankle, sheâs already too far away for them to tell her so.
Thereâs no being sure what time it is, except it isnât raining yet, so that might mean sheâs not too late.
She turns the corner of the block with Spencerport Savings and Loan and, about halfway between her and the bank, sees Daniel just leaving a huge old Victorian house thatâs been divided into offices.
She runs even faster, but is never going to catch up. As he puts his hand out to open the door of the bank, she calls, âDaniel!â
Only then does she wonder if he gave her his real name: her, a clumsy, pushy, strange-looking stranger in a bank, who had forno apparent reason demanded personal information. She knows that in similar circumstances she has made things up, as a game, a private joke. If he has done the same, she has lost valuable time.
But apparently heâs more trustworthy than she is.
He turns.
And waits for her.
And continues to wait, even when the bank guard opens the door to let a woman customer out and to let Daniel come in. Daniel shakes his head and motions for the guard to go ahead and close the door without him.
Zoe is
Similar Books
